


A change of character

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: The Simpsons
Genre: Age Difference, Boss/Employee Relationship, Character Development, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, He's Growing As A Person Okay, Implied Lenny/Carl, Indirect Love Confessions, Literal Sleeping Together, M/M, Nightmares, No Smut, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Possible OOC Burns, Professional Simp Smithers, References And Dialogue From Actual Show, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 11:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28670034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: Waylon Smithers is content with his job as a faithful, obedient assistant and servant to his boss C. Montgomery Burns. That is, until things change one destined night and Monty asks him to accompany him to bed. After that night, everything Waylon had thought to know was turned on its head. How will that change their relationship? Did Waylon want it to change?
Relationships: Charles Montgomery Burns & Waylon Smithers, Charles Montgomery Burns/Waylon Smithers
Comments: 30
Kudos: 48





	1. A human dreamcatcher

“Well? Tuck me in already, you imbecile! There’s no time for dawdling when minutes of my precious beauty sleep goes lost!” fussed Mr. Burns, awaiting his faithful assistant and employee to tuck him into bed and fluff his pillow for him.

Smithers allowed himself a small, private chuckle, more than used to his boss’s verbal rebukes by now. He was only closing the bedroom door, yet the stingy man had already grown impatient.

“Of course sir, what was I thinking?” he raised, fondness spiking his tone, and he returned to Monty’s side, proceeding with their nightly routine.

Burns glowered at him with narrow eyes as he was tucked in, hissing: “Don’t sass me, Smithers, you forget your position,” in an attempt at a threat, but it fell flat. He would never actually chastise or fire his assistant, those were empty promises.

“No, sir,” hummed Waylon agreeingly, stepping back when he’d finished fluffing up Montgomery’s pillow and adding: “Is there anything else I can do for you?”, as per usual. Mr. Burns simply rolled his eyes, but there was a change in the air tonight, something Smithers picked up on in an instance. He couldn't place his finger on what it was, sadly.

“You always ask me that, and every time, I respond-...“

“- ‘get out of here before I release the hounds’” Waylon filled in the blank for him with a cheeky smile, noticing the slight widening of his boss’s eyes. When the elder gave a slow, tentative nod, muttering: “Then what are you waiting for?”, Smithers bowed his head and headed for the bedroom door.

“Just to bid you goodnight, sir.”

But as he pushed down the door handle, a voice piped up behind him, almost pleading: “Wait!”, and when he turned around, there were no hounds there to escort him out, like he first suspected. _So he had been right about the change, after all._

“Sir?”

His supervisor lowered his head, eyes downcast when he reluctantly called, in a barely audible mumble: “Could you… stay with me tonight?”

As though dealt a blow, Waylon stumbled a step back, slack-jawed and stunned. He blinked a couple of times, discreetly pinched his arm to see if he was dreaming, and relished in the responding sting.

This was real.

Burns suddenly snapped, disapproving of his assistant’s premature glee: “Muttonhead! Don’t go getting the wrong idea. I’ve been having these horrible nightmares recently, and I need _you_ to be my human dreamcatcher.”

Smithers’ heart ached for his boss, so _that_ was the change. _Nightmares_.

He would not let the fact that Monty only wanted him there to fend off his bad dreams discourage him from taking the opportunity of a lifetime. Carefully, as though Burns was a ticking time bomb that could go off at any second if you got too close - which, to be fair, wasn’t _too_ far off from the truth -, Waylon took a seat by the foot of the ridiculously huge bed, offering his boss a small smile.

“Right. Where do you want me, then?”

“Don’t make this queer! Do you want to stay or not?”

Stifling a laugh of adoration at his antics, Smithers replied: “Certainly, sir”, and slipped off his jacket, folding it neatly to lay atop a chair in a corner of the room along with his bowtie, socks and belt. Flustered, his boss squeaked out: “J- Just what do you think you’re doing, Smithers?”

It was with diffidence that Smithers took his glasses off and placed them on the bedside table; for he was unable to see his supervisor clearly without them.

“I’m just preparing for bed, sir. Do you mind?” he asked, granted permission in the form of an indifferent grunt, and so, he invited himself beneath the covers on Burns’ right side, respectfully leaving plenty of space between them. He fit without a doubt, the bed was massive and his boss was a tall, lanky thing; a tall, lanky thing whom Waylon loved very much, thank you.

“You are to fend off any nightmares that may tread this bed; Nothing else. _That’s_ your task. You stay on your side. Is that clear?” challenged Montgomery, as though expecting some sort of protest, but Smithers was no idiot. He knew he’d only get a chance like this every blue moon. So he simply nodded, content with laying on his back and staring up at the intricate details of the ceiling.

“Yes, sir. Goodnight, sir.”

With his arms propped up beneath his pillow (the most comfortable pillow he’d ever laid his head upon, it probably cost more than his weekly salary), Smithers awaited the other’s answer, which only came out as an annoyed: “Hmph.”

And in his very own way, that was Mr. Burns’ responding ‘goodnight’.

* * *

It didn’t take long before the billionaire nodded off, gently snoring away in the otherwise quiet room. Despite this, Smithers moved carefully, as though his boss would sense if he shifted onto his side to face him. The sight he was greeted with when doing this caused his heart to make a flip inside his chest and he had to swallow down the sound of affection that threatened to escape his throat.

The image of a peaceful Montgomery Burns was one he’d take to his grave, he thought, for Burns had never looked so harmless, so vulnerable. The usual furrow in his brow was completely smoothed out, his eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks and his mouth slightly agape as his chest rose and fell at a steady pace.

This picture of Burns was one the man would never share with _any_ of his other employees, Smithers knew this, and it only made him feel closer to the man. He felt _special_.

He had to force himself to roll onto his back so that he too could go to sleep. Else he’d be here all night just staring at his supervisor, and even he had to admit that would be creepy. 

* * *

As expected, Waylon was woken up shortly after he’d drifted off to sleep by his boss’s whining and whimpering, the tossing about on his side of the bed shaking the entire frame. He blearily opened his eyes, having to strain them to see anything in the dark. But once he found the smaller, wiry frame next to him, in distress, Waylon felt his heart sink.

What did he do now? His instructions were to ‘fend away his supervisor’s nightmares’, but no further direction was given on what to do once the nightmares actually _came_. And Montgomery _hated_ to be touched. _‘Unless I order you to or if absolutely necessary’_ he had so elegantly phrased it back when Smithers was still new on the job and very much head over heels for his boss.

And as Burns’ fit only got more intense, eyes moving vividly beneath his eyelids, Smithers made up his mind. He’d take responsibility for this in the morning, he thought and called out, quietly: “Sir…”

Nothing. When the distressed sounds continued, he called out again: “Sir, it’s alright, you’re just having a nightmare”, one hand coming up to rest on his supervisor’s shoulder in a feeble attempt to ground him, to reach through to him even in this state.

His tries were fruitless, completely without response or repercussion. So he tried once more, louder this time: “Monty!”

That seemed to have done it. With a jerk, his supervisor jerked upright, eyes flying open. His chest was heaving and he looked around, disoriented, before his wild gaze latched onto Smithers, his expression inscrutable. Waylon loathed how his face warmed at the attention directed at him, but he ignored it, whispering in the darkness: “Are you okay, sir?”

Montgomery stared at him for a moment longer than Smithers would have preferred, with him just having called his boss not only by _name_ but by the nickname he _loathed_. At least he broke through to him…

“Yes, I think… I am. Exemplary job, Smithers,” praised Burns, the amount of surprise that laced his tone enough to last both of them for a couple of weeks at the very least. Huh. He didn’t yell at Waylon for calling him ‘Monty’. But then again, he _did_ just have a nightmare; he might not have even realized. And perhaps that was for the better.

Then, he turned away from his assistant, soon enough going back to sleep, but Smithers was stuck watching him. Burns’ thin frame rose and fell with deepening breaths. Smithers had a feeling he would be looking back on this night many times in the future, with new fuel for his love that still burned strong, after all these years. He knew he was naive to hope, but _this night alone_ proved that his loyalty, his _yearning_ ; it wasn’t all for nothing. 

* * *

He must have dozed off sooner or later because when he woke next, the sunlight from the huge golden arch window in Burns’ bedroom shone in his face and had him stirring awake, much kinder a wake-up call than the one his boss would have given him personally. Next, he registered the absence of weight on the other side of the mattress, and he was up in an instant, clumsily getting back into his clothes from the day before and grabbing his glasses. He’d slept in late!

Dashing into Montgomery’s office, an apology cupped in his mouth, Smithers came to a halt before his desk, stunned to silence by the view that greeted him. Mr. Burns lay reclined in his office chair, thin legs propped up with one foot atop the other on his desk and his eyes shut. But the most unbelievable detail that finished off this surreal picture was the small smile that graced his features.

Waylon exhaled, on instinct more than anything else: “Sir?” and could only stare as his boss came back to life, taking his shoes off his desk and beaming at Smithers, light and carefree.

“Oh, good morning, Waylon!”

 _Waylon? Good morning?_ Smithers found himself opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water before he settled for an answer.

His answer took the shape of a question.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

His boss barked out a laugh, though not a malicious one like he normally would and quite honestly _should_ at his assistant’s stupidity.

“It _is_ morning, is it not? And it’s a good one, too. I rather thought my greeting was suitable.”

 _When you put it like that, yes, but you don’t normally_ greet _me at all,_ thought Waylon, lost.

Still, he had to know: “Why didn’t you wake me?”

“I thought you deserved a chance to sleep in. You’re the main reason this morning started off so good, after all,” explained Burns without a second thought, causing color to rise high on Waylon’s cheeks. He clearly didn’t see how his words affected his employee, and that was troubling.

Covering up his fluster behind a wide smile, Smithers said: “I’m just glad I could be of service, sir”, to which his boss gave an eager nod. “You truly were. I have not slept that well in years!”

“Years, sir?”

“Yes, that’s what I said.”


	2. An old man's rumspringa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Smithers takes his boss out for drinks. Burns shows a sudden and drastic change of behavior. He lets himself go and has one drink too many. Smithers takes him home. What could possibly go wrong?
> 
> [Spoiler!: Not an ACTUAL rumspringa. It just sounded good to have in the title, lol.]

This day would be one for the history books, because this was the unforeseen day when Montgomery _actually_ treated his employees (especially **Smithers** ) with basic humanity and respect. He only ever got grumpy twice; both times at Homer Simpson for ignoring safety protocol, but that was understandable. He was a lot less demanding, too, Waylon even felt _idle_ at times with the lack of tasks. So when it was only 4 pm and his boss granted him the rest of the day off, Smithers tried not to feel slighted. He really did.

Ashamed that he wasn’t delighted like the rest of his co-workers would be with this news, Smithers forged a smile, bowing once. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” he replied in kind.

A brief silence fell over the gigantic room the two were situated in, almost palpable, there to touch if so desired, before Burns spoke up from his recliner, joyful: “So another Friday is upon us. What will you be doing, Smithers? Something _gay_ , no doubt.”

Suddenly, his assistant’s blood froze to ice. So he _did_ know.

Unable to calm his nerves, Waylon stuttered out a “Wuh! _What?”_

“You know, light-hearted, fancy-free. ‘Mothers lock up your daughters, Smithers is on the town!’”

Oh. Oh, _he_ meant _gay_ as in…

Forcing out a laugh as though he knew _precisely_ what the other meant from the very beginning, Smithers righted himself with an: “Exactly, sir”, eyes darting from side to side, avoiding his boss’s amused gaze. He worried that if Burns spent too much around him, he would figure him out, and Waylon would rather they stay the same as they always have. Yet Montgomery surprised him once again that evening.

“Anywho, do me a favor and humor me… Would you mind if I come with? Staying holed up in the mansion day in and day our isn’t good for me, I could use some change of scenery.”

Well, he couldn’t very well say no to that proposition, could he? In fact, this was too good to be true! How was Waylon supposed to keep his feelings in check tonight?

He was a gentleman, he would manage, he thought and gave Mr. Burns his answer, thinking it’d be rude to keep him waiting.

“It would be my pleasure, sir.” 

* * *

They drove along a street downtown with more high-budget bars, one of which Smithers assumed Burns would holler at him to stop at. But oddly enough, none of them seemed to be to his taste, as he just sat in the passenger seat of the Cadillac frowning out the window. By the time they had covered all the higher-class joints, bars, and restaurants in town, Waylon began to grow antsy.

Suddenly, his employer had enough. “None of these will do, Smithers! I want someplace affordable, someplace _quaint_. Do you think you’re capable of finding that for me, hmm?” he asked, and most would think of his demand as brash and impatient, but Smithers merely found it charming; _impressive_ , even. Burns got what he wanted, no matter what.

If only he wanted _him_ , thought the assistant with great chagrin, but he caught himself and shook his head, dismissing the absurd notion his mind conjured.

Burns never specified what _kind_ of bar he wished to visit, but then his earlier request ruminated with Smithers, of how he wanted to ‘come with’ his employee. Cautiously, yet with a twinge of optimism betraying his tone, he spoke up: “Would you like to attend one of the bars _I_ usually frequent, sir?”

Rolling his eyes and crossing his arms over his chest in a defensive maneuver, his supervisor made a point of keeping his eyes on the blur of buildings on the other side of the glass.

“Well, _da-doy_ , you bumbling buffoon! I wouldn’t have asked to tag along otherwise, would I?” Rather unsuccessful in keeping the smile out of his voice, Smithers turned the Cadillac around and pulled up on the road where Moe’s was located, nodding.

“I suppose not.” 

* * *

Still alienated by Burns’ burst of energy and well-willing attitude, Smithers held the door to the bar open for him, the usual scene of Moe’s greeting them. Three of Montgomery’s workers, Homer, Carl, and Lenny, sat in a row by the bar counter and turned around to spot the intruder. Their light mood and banter was quelled at once at the sight of their boss and you could practically hear a pin drop. Perhaps Waylon should have warned his boss beforehand.

Burns was the first to break the silence with a clearing of the throat.

“Gentlemen, good to see you!” he greeted, uncharacteristically cheerful - maybe to diffuse the tension - and he waltzed up to the bar, graciously taking a seat on one of the high bar stools all without assistance. Smithers was a bit taken aback, but he made to follow, taking the seat left empty between his supervisor and his co-workers.

“Oh, bartkeep! I’ll have two glasses of your finest liquor, please!”, called Burns to Moe, who at first arched an eyebrow at the request, skeptical toward his new patron, but then he mumbled: “Right away”, abandoning his task of polishing glasses to set off on finding his ‘finest liquor’.

On Waylon’s left side sat Homer, pausing his quiet conversation with Lenny and Carl to shoot him a questioning look, one asking Smithers what in hell their boss was doing there. Smithers didn’t have a clear answer to that, so he simply shrugged, not planning to speak ill of his supervisor and friend when he was sitting on his other side; or _ever_ , for that matter.

A number of feelings, entangled and muddy, arose at the sight of his coworkers and _the bartender himself_ being scared to silence by his boss. He often saw it at work, Burns could use extreme measures to earn his employees’ respect, but outside, off the clock? What did the men fear, that Montgomery would _fire_ them if they got too loud?

As Waylon pondered on it, he realized that it might have been the truth, were this any other day. Burns definitely _could_ decide to discharge his employees if he thought their behavior could be harmful to the plant. Unfair as it was. But facade or not, his boss had changed his ways, if only for today. And why? Because his assistant had accompanied him to bed?

His cheeks tinged with color and he quickly departed from that train of thought.

Soon enough, the volume of the bar returned to something other than hushed, tense whispers, and Smithers engaged in small-talk with his boss, keeping him occupied until they were served their drinks. But oh, by the color and smell of the contents in the small glasses, Moe’s ‘finest liquor’ to him meant _whiskey_. Of course it did, why was Smithers even remotely surprised? He nervously watched Burns inspect his drink, swirling the liquor around in its glass.

“Sir, if you’d like something milder, I can always-”

“Pish posh! Don’t be such a nudnik, Smithers. I have drunk whiskey before, you’re aware?” interrupted Monty with a dismissive wave of his hand, his tone playful rather than annoyed, and Smithers was not the one to tell his boss he couldn’t hold his liquor. Burns was allowed some fun, but Waylon promised himself to make sure he didn’t get completely wasted.

Holding his employee’s eyes, Montgomery raised the glass up to his nose, saying: “In fact…” and taking a deep breath in, his eyelashes fluttering in delight. “I believe this is an ‘American Oak’, aged… oh, what could it be? 30 years?”

Jaw hanging slack, Moe stammered from the other side of the bar in baffled agreement: “Y- Yeah, that’s right. You uh- you really know your stuff, Mistah.”

 _Christ, okay, that might be the single hottest thing he’d ever heard,_ Waylon thought helplessly and pulled on his bowtie, feeling it sat a bit tight. He could hear the lust in his own voice when he breathed: “How did you…?”

For a heated moment, they simply looked at each other, the background fading away and Smithers’ breath hitching a great deal more than he prayed was noticeable. That was before his boss’s shoulders shook once with a barely repressed laugh and he gestured to a bottle standing on the shelf with Kanji letters on it. _Oh_.

“I didn’t guess if that’s what you thought. I merely paid attention, my dear Smithers. _You_ usually do, too,” explained Montgomery, his smile fading on that last note. Waylon gulped, conflicted and perplexed by the use of both the endearment and the scolding. Did his boss just now register how little everything else mattered to his employee when he himself was present?

“You have been a little… off this evening. Is anything the matter?” continued Burns, causing Smithers’ bespectacled eyes to widen with each word. Mr. Burns must be in a really good mood tonight, since he was showing genuine interest in his assistant’s well being. He _never_ did that. And Smithers never expected him to, either. He hoped, yes, but the man wasn’t obligated to ask.

Managing but a shy smile, Waylon adjusted his glasses and replied: “I’m just peachy, sir. Really”, to which he received a dubious look. So he added: “It’s a nice change to see you so happy.”

In acknowledgment, Burns splayed his slender fingers together, his brow creasing as he reflected on Smithers’ statement. The other was about to explain what he meant when he gave a curt nod, another smile curling at the corners of his mouth.

“... _Happy_. I suppose that puts it fairly well. Yes, you’re right. I have felt lighter since I woke up this morning,” he mused, taking a thoughtful sip of his whiskey. At least he wasn’t _chugging_ it down… 

* * *

Smithers really shouldn’t have gone and jinxed it, because his boss was now on his _third_ glass of Japanese single malt, far more giggly and loose than before. He was currently amidst a laughing fit over one of Homer’s tasteless jokes - something he _never_ would do sober - and almost falling off the chair before Waylon finally gathered enough courage to take the glass out of his hands, helping him sit upright in the process.

“I think that’s quite enough, sir,” he said sternly, leaving no room for discussion. The man had already convinced him to let him have a second drink, and then _charmed_ him to a third by smoothing out the lapels on his assistant’s suit jacket and saying how handsome he thought he looked. What was Smithers to do but accommodate his supervisor with his wish at that moment?

Of course, he didn’t take the compliment to heart, he knew it was only the drink talking… Right?

Only sobering up enough to leer Smither’s way, Burns half-bit, half-slurred: “You’re not my mother, Waylon, so quit mollycoddlin' me”, encouraged by his even drunker company.

“Yeah! You tell- _hiccup!_ \- You tell the man, Burnsss,” cheered Carl, sitting at a forty-degree angle and leaning his cheek on Lenny’s shoulder. They made quite the couple, thought Waylon, only granting them a roll of eyes before returning his attention to his inebriated boss; who had _somehow_ , during the _five seconds_ Smithers looked away, found his way up on the bar counter, and he sat there akin to a king on his throne, waving with a bunt of money the other didn’t as much as know he brought with him. What had he originally planned to do with that money?

“Next round’s on me, gentlemen! I don’t praise you enough f’your hard work, so cheers!” he called, raising an empty glass from behind the bar in the air, to which his workers responded with a raucous string of hooting and burping. Reluctant to be the stick-in-the-mud responsible assistant yet clear-headed enough to know it was the right call, Smithers approached his boss, calling out: “It’s high time for you to call it a night, sir. Allow me to escort you.”

“Aw, you’re no fun, Mr. Smithers!” whined a smashed Homer, no doubt more worried about his potential free drink than his inebriated boss. Waylon quietly scanned Monty, shocked to find him putting his hands up in defeat.

“Very well, Smithers, but you shall carry me to the car. I’m in no state to walk, would you say?” and what a graceful defeat it was. Smithers didn’t think twice before shooting his co-workers a grin, an I-told-you-so kind of grin, and taking the money his willing supervisor had to press half of the clean bills on the bar counter for Moe to get. He said: “That should cover your round. I wish you a good night, gentlemen”, and turned to Burns, who still occupied the ledge of the counter, but with his arms out now, waiting, and the sight was enough to quicken his assistant’s heartbeat.

Carefully, Smithers scooped his boss up in his arms, stifling a delighted sigh at how perfectly Montgomery fit in them, hoping his cheeks didn’t warm at how the other clutched onto him, thin arms coming around his neck. Every single pair of eyes in this bar was now on the two of them, Burns too many whiskeys gone to notice or be embarrassed, and Waylon too enamored to give a damn. As he carried the smaller man out of the bar bridal-style, he called: “Montgomery wishes you a good night, too”, and to his amusement, his supervisor caught on and responded accordingly with a: “Toodle-oo!”


	3. You make me want to be a better person

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying with his boss the morning after a night of drinking turns up the most shocking revelation for poor Waylon Smithers, and he finds out that Monty has changed in more ways than one.

“That was delightful, my dear Smithers! Did you enjoy yourself?” called a tipsy Burns from the passenger seat, still keeping up his facade of kindness. His assistant had almost grown accustomed to it. The _endearments_ , however, were another story.

With a quick glance at his supervisor, Smithers easily replied: “I always do when I’m with you, sir”.

Much to his surprise, Burns actually picked up on the answer, using it against him in an unfortunate turn of events.

“S’ that so? That’s why you didn’t have more to drink?” he asked, giving Waylon a scrupulous once-over, far more searching than an intoxicated man his age should be. Afraid that any movement or minuscule change of expression would expose him, Smithers’ hands tightened around the steering wheel and he accelerated ever-so-slightly in hopes of getting home quicker. He didn’t have many drinks, no, but he couldn’t tell his boss that was because he wished to remember this night in full detail. If he, too, was drunk, he couldn’t trust himself not to get loose-lipped or emotional and accidentally express his feelings to Montgomery.

“Well?” prompted said man, impatient, nearly making the other flinch.

 _You’re driving, Waylon, get your shit together and answer the man so you can get back in one piece,_ he thought.

Far too used to lying about his own emotions, Smithers shrugged his shoulders, a sign of indifference that in reality wasn’t there, and he spoke: “I’ve decided to cut back on the booze a bit, sir”, thankfully to no protest. Rather, Burns straightened in his seat, sobering up just a tad. The dopey smile that occupied his face for a record amount of time that night twitched. This could mean a hundred different things, Smithers was no expert on feelings in general, but he’d like to consider himself an expert on _Monty_ ; and Monty wasn’t happy with the answer he received.

 _Coward_ , Waylon quietly scolded himself.

Just as he figured out an appropriate rebuttal, they arrived at Burns’ mansion, and it took some serious effort for Waylon to turn the key in the Cadillac and step out to once again retrieve his supervisor, who remained eerily quiet as his employee carried him to the porch step and fumbled with the keys to the front door. They ascended the set of stairs and only reached Monty’s bedroom after several minutes, thanks to the size of the house. Luckily, Burns was not very heavy.

As per routine, Smither tucked the other in and fluffed his pillow, dimming the lights and then returning to his side, his hands clasped behind his back. Unsure if Burns wanted him to sleep next to him this night again, he asked: “Can I help you with anything else tonight?”

“Waylon,” began Montgomery then, his face schooled in a dead-pan expression, and Smithers gulped, still unused to being addressed by his first name. “Yes, sir?” he replied, nerves strung tight and audible in his voice. When urged to come closer by a bony finger, he leaned in just an inch or so, expecting for his boss to whisper something or reprimand him. So when he was yanked within an inch of his boss’s face by his bowtie and felt a pair of lips press against his; soft but insistent and with a whiff of bourbon still on the other’s breath, he barely had the time to react, much less _return_ the sentiment. It was only for a brief moment that Burns’ hands slid around his neck, fingertips lightly stroking at the nape where hair met skin before they retreated and Montgomery exhaled against parted lips: “You worry too much sometimes, y’know? Come, lay down with me,” and he patted the space next to him on the bed.

Was Smithers dreaming? He had to take a moment to compose himself, to refrain from collapsing right then and there on the floor, and to pull at his bowtie, slowly untying it. With it followed his suit jacket and shoes, but he stopped there. He was still painfully aware of his supervisor’s intoxication, he didn’t wish to take advantage of him in his weakened state. People often do things they regret when drunk, he reminded himself as a precaution and once again got beneath luxurious silken covers, hating how familiar it felt already.

This would be the second night in a row where they sleep in the same bed. Only now, the circumstances were slightly different-

Facing his boss, a smile tugged at Smithers’ lips when he realized that Montgomery was out like a light, snoring into his pillow. He looked absolutely exhausted, but a small smile remained on his face, and it rekindled a fire inside Waylon’s chest. They would talk about this tomorrow, he thought, fighting a yawn, and he leaned in to plant a gentle kiss onto Burns’ forehead, whispering into the night when allowed the chance: “Goodnight Monty. I love you.” 

* * *

The next morning, Smithers took the duty of the less hungover party by getting up to fetch his boss a glass of water and some painkillers. The man would need it.

Waylon returned at his side (not wanting him to wake up alone) and waited until Montgomery stirred awake, a pained groan speaking volumes about his current state.

“Morning, sir. I would say it’s a good one, but… well, I doubt it is, with how much you had last night,” he fumbled with his words, his tongue getting ahead of his mind. Thankfully, his supervisor shut him up with a dismissive wave of his hand, disappearing beneath the covers with another grunt. “Do be quiet, Smithers, or you might cause my head to implode.”

At once, Waylon felt horrible for letting Burns drink as much as he did. Who knew what a hangover felt like for a past 100-year old? The least he could do now was give him some peace.

“Of course, sir, but first; I left you two Ibuprofen and a glass of cold water on your nightstand.”

In response, a weak but demanding hand snuck out from the duvet of comfort, beckoning for the assistant to hand over the hangover cure. Smithers reciprocated. Then, feeling in the way, he said: “I’ll leave you be”, rising from the mattress with utmost caution as to avoid rustling the sheets and therefore poor Mr. Burns’ hungover mind and body.

But as he made to leave, he heard, from beneath the covers: “Get back here, you lubberwort!”

Suppressing a startled laugh at that, Waylon acquiesced the order, sitting back down on the bed and speaking to the lump under the silk. “Sir?”

“Don’t make me speak more than necessary. I’m in pain, and in no condition to be left alone. You’re taking responsibility for me,” muttered the lump feebly, raising a sympathetic grin on his employee’s face. This was his way of asking him to stay, and Waylon certainly wasn’t going to defy a direct order. No, that would be highly unprofessional of him.

“Certainly, sir.” 

* * *

About half an hour later, Mr. Burns had made the progress of creeping out from his safe space of silk and linen to sitting upright, eyes shut as he leaned back against the golden headboard of the bed, a pained grimace on his face.

“You’re sure there’s nothing else I can do for you, sir?”

“There is. You can shut up,” hissed Burns, massaging his temples, and Smithers nodded, shame tearing at him. “Sorry, sir,” he said.

Suddenly, the billionaire threw the covers to the floor with a huff, and, leaning in close to Smithers -- _too close_ \-- he said: “I’m tired of you apologizing, you mutt. As my equal, you should-”

But Waylon never got to hear the end of that sentence, for his boss clasped a hand over his mouth just then, his face turning white, and Waylon got the bucket he’d fetched and placed beside the bed in the very last second for him, patting his back and looking away to spare Burns his dignity as he retched. It was quite unbelievable that the morning sickness did not come until now, he thought, but what unfortunate timing it had!

It hit Smithers at that moment, like the blunt end of a hammer against the back of his head, that Monty had addressed him as _‘_ his _equal’_. Did he truly mean that? After all these years of service, of unending loyalty and unrequited pining, had it finally been recognized? And the kiss from last night… were they connected, somehow?

Perhaps he was overanalyzing things. Besides, now was not the best time to bring this up, Smithers decided, handing his wrecked supervisor a cloth to wipe his mouth after sitting doubled over the bucket for a while.

“You okay?” he asked, dropping the ‘sir’ in an experiment of sorts, though the question seemed foolish to him once he said it aloud. Burns simply gave a weak nod, sinking back into the mattress and letting his eyes slip shut. “Better,” he said. Then: “I think I need some rest, Smithers. You may leave.”

Smithers wasn’t disappointed. He _wasn’t_. That would be unfair of him. Burns was still ill, he deserved some space, a chance to sleep it off. And that’s what he would get.

* * *

The next two hours or so of Waylon’s Saturday afternoon were mostly spent sitting on the majestic staircase in the house and twiddling his thumbs. On a weekend like this, Waylon wasn’t obligated to stay here and serve Mr. Burns, but he found himself unable to go home. After last night’s events, the man feared he might not have the self-restraint to leave before he talked to his supervisor about their kiss.

Guilt was eating him up inside. He got his own boss drunk - or, rather, he didn’t _stop_ him from getting _himself_ drunk - and thanks to his inebriation, Burns had gone and kissed him. Wonderful a kiss as it was, it obviously couldn’t have been sincere. Perhaps he had mistaken his assistant for a lady, or it could have been a sign of gratitude because he didn’t know any other way to express it? Either way, Waylon knew he’d be resenting himself for letting this happen for a long time forward.

A clearing of the throat sounded behind him, practically ringing out in the huge house. Smithers turned around to see his supervisor dressed in a regal red morning gown, the sleeves pooling over his crossed arms. The robe, though presumably the smallest size available, clung a tad loosely on his thin frame, tied into a knot at the front but leaving strips of skin at the chest bare, the fabric pooling down one shoulder. Greedily, Smithers took in the view, never having seen this outfit before but feeling very much blessed to have now.

“What are you still doing here?” asked Montgomery, miffed. He descended the stairs effortlessly, almost as though his strength had been replenished with his short nap.

Unsure, Waylon followed his boss through the house, into the kitchen. He watched as Monty took ingredients out of the fridge and made himself a sandwich, and he scrambled for an excuse.

“Well, sir, I- er-... I didn’t want to leave you alone when you were…” but he trailed off, eyes lingering on Burns’ trained hands as he cut up perfect slices of cucumber and cherry tomatoes. Had he always been this _capable?_ Why was Smithers even needed, then?

Montgomery spun the knife in his hand once for style points - and shit, Waylon thought he was gonna cut his _hand_ off -, and he finished his employee’s thought for him: “... hungover? Well, I’m happy to inform you that I’ve slept it off. Can I get you anything while I’m at this?”

Smithers had never heard such a strange sentence from his boss before. It took him a moment of dumbfounded blinking before he decided to humor the other’s query by responding: “I’d love a cup of coffee.”

Half-expecting Burns to finally break and laugh at his naivety, to tell him to get it himself, he was stunned with the man’s actual answer. “As would I. A marvelous idea, Smithers. Why don’t you take a seat at the table while I brew it?”

 _Was this a joke? Where were the hidden cameras?_ wondered Waylon, more confused than ever as he silently complied with the suggestion, moving to the dining area and sitting down in one of the expensive chairs. He felt as though he intruded; outstaying his welcome, so to speak. Sure, Burns hadn’t directly asked him to leave, only why he hadn’t _already_ left, but this may just be a stalling mission for the elder to wake and command his hounds to chase Smithers out of the mansion.

A steaming cup of coffee was placed in front of him on the table, and Burns took a seat opposite to him, pretending like it was a completely natural course of action.

“I do hope it’s to your taste,” he said. Waylon was torn between staring at his all of a sudden independent and kind supervisor and into his own mug, asking himself if it could be laced with something. But when he took an experimental sip, it tasted not only like regular coffee, but it was blended _perfectly_ , with two sugars and cream; _just_ how he liked it. Had Burns been… _paying_ _attention_ to what Smithers took with his coffee? The mere entertainment of the thought was enough to fluster Waylon, who managed to push the cup away from him to look at Burns properly.

Looking utmost insulted at having his own coffee drinking interrupted, Burns placed his cup down onto the table, asking: “No good?”

“It’s _too_ good,” muttered his assistant, to which he arched an eyebrow.

“Hmm?”

Adjusting his glasses, Waylon swallowed his fear and came forward with what had been on his mind since he sat down: “Excuse my being forward, Mr. Burns, but if you’re capable of doing what I have done for you for _years_ , why have me around at all?”, hoping the billionaire understood the intention behind his question. This wasn’t Smithers trying to accuse or scold him, but rather _ask_ him why he kept him on the job.

After taking another long sip of his coffee, Burns shrugged, feigning nonchalance, although the matter was far from that easy to Waylon. The response given here could decide his career, their-... _his_ future.

“Please, Smithers, I’m not completely helpless.”

 _Fuck, no, that wasn’t what he meant._ Smithers opened his mouth to apologize and explain himself, but then a finger was on his lips, shutting him up.

“I know that’s not what you meant. I haven’t always known how to care for myself, or even been capable of the _strength_ to. But lately, I’ve come to realize that I’m too dependent on you.”

“Sir…”

“Shush! Let me finish! I took better care of my health, I did things on my own, simple things like taking a walk or a shower. Slowly but surely, I began practicing the things you do for me, minus the paperwork of course. And it took me a while, but now I can finally fend for myself.”

Although happy for him, Waylon couldn’t bring himself to smile, internally panicking over what sounded like a prolonged discharge. That’s when Burns surprised him by leaning ever-so-slightly forward on the table, putting a hitch in his assistant’s breath. He spoke almost affectionately: “This does _not_ make you obsolete, Waylon, I can see the gears turning in your head. I still need your expertise, you’re the most effective worker I have, for God’s sake!” he exclaimed with a laugh. Then, clicking his tongue and returning to serenity, he continued: “But more than that, you’re my _friend_. I’ve grown accustomed to your company, even grateful for it. Don’t let it go to your head, though.”

Smithers thought, red-faced and enamored, that he was _definitely_ letting it go to his head. He had an easier time reaching out to grab his cup this time and the coffee tasted even better than when he first tried it.

“I won’t. I’m honored, though, that you consider me a friend. Thank you for telling me this,” he replied when having composed himself, offering Burns a wide smile. Back again to feigning indifference yet being exposed by the tint of pink on his cheeks, Montgomery huffed out a scoff.

“No need to thank me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oookay, so things are getting a bit juicy, aren't they? I'd like to take the time to say that despite the fact that the reads-to-kudos ratio is so imbalanced on this fic, I'm enjoying myself writing this. It doesn't conform to nearly anything I've written before and it's fun to try something new. With that said, I greatly appreciate you reading and hope you stay with me through the end of this work. x


	4. Rare and sweet as cherry wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No summary this time. It's the final chapter bay bee! Go ahead, treat yourself!

The pair spent some time in Burns’ living room together, rewatching old films and sharing small talk about everything and nothing. Smithers was enjoying himself so much he didn’t realize it was dark outside until his supervisor mentioned it.

“It’s getting rather late, Waylon. Why don’t you stay the night?” he asked, awfully gentle. Then, reading his assistant’s fluster for disapproval - and really, shouldn’t he know Smithers better by now? -, he quickly added: “Provided that you _want_ to, of course.”

Waylon eyed the man on the other side of the couch with careful hesitance, searching for any sign of satire. When he failed to find any, he schooled his expression into a soft smile of gratitude, willing his heart to stop thumping so aggressively against his ribcage.

“I do,” he nodded, and the grin that stretched across the plutocrat’s features in response was eerily reminiscent of the one of a cat having caught a bird, full of proud delight. He crossed his legs and steepled his fingers together, asking if Waylon would be a dear and get them a bottle of red wine from the wine cellar. Far too aware of the merit that larder held and with last night’s events still fresh in his mind, Smithers was reluctant at first.

“Do you really think it’s a good idea to be drinking tonight again, sir?”

“Why not?” Burns shot back, and to this, Waylon had no answer. Or, at least none he wanted to say aloud at the risk of sullying the good mood. So he settled for another excuse, one more relevant: “Well, don’t you want to save the wine for someone more… special?”

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like he was fishing for compliments, but here they were. Monty’s blank stare felt like it burrowed through Waylon’s skull and got straight into his thoughts and Waylon tried not to let his nerves show, but then the man spoke in a low, serene tone. “And who’s to say I don’t consider you special, Waylon?”

Suddenly, the room felt very warm, and Smithers had to stand up just to restrain himself from kissing his boss senseless right then and there. He responded, rushed and choppy: “V- Very well, sir. I’ll go and see what I can find.”

He made a fierce attempt at ignoring Burns’ amused gaze following him out of the living room. When he had descended down the steps to the wine stock, he allowed himself a moment of reprieve and sloped against the nearest wall, the concrete nice and cold against his back.

His supervisor was being awfully flirtatious; purring Smithers’ first name like that, complimenting him, asking him to stay the night…

No, he had to get his mind out of the gutter! He told himself to just let things happen and not get his hopes up too much, and he pushed himself off the wall, focusing his energy on surveying the shelves upon shelves of expensive bottles. There were so many labels, so many origins to choose from. Drinking the most romantic of wines late on a Saturday evening with his boss was like something pulled straight out of his wildest fantasies. He couldn’t let this opportunity go amiss.

He swiped one finger across the label on one of the bottles and he uncovered the name beneath a layer of dust; Palmaz estate Cabernet Sauvignon. Even the _name_ sounded expensive.

“I don’t even want to know how much this one costs,” he muttered to himself and blew the rest of the dust off of it, grabbing two glasses from the kitchen on his way back to the living room.

“What took you so long? Did you get stuck gawking at my impressive collection?” asked Montgomery playfully, and Waylon could only nod as he reclaimed his spot on the couch to show the other his discovery. But Burns stopped him with a dismissive hand gesture and, looking away, he said: “No, no, I don’t want to know yet. Pour us each a glass and I’ll show you a reiteration of what you thought I did at the bar yesterday; but for _real_ this time”, and then he closed his eyes.

So he _did_ remember their trip to the bar the night before. Did that mean he recalled _other_ events, too? Perplexed but curious to see Burns’ claimed expertise, Smithers obeyed his wish, handing Burns a glass and hiding the wine bottle behind the sofa’s armrest. He took the granted opportunity to look straight at his object affection, eyes traveling downward to the opening in his robe, showcasing creamy, pale skin.

When the plutocrat reopened his eyes, Waylon instantly felt his face flush and he snapped his eyes back up to his face again. He watched Montgomery swirl the dark red liquid in his glass, taking a deep whiff of the contents. He hummed: “I can detect raspberry…” and then he took a small sip, resuming: “Hmm, yes, there’s a distinctive trace of mulberry, plums and… black tea.”

Smithers gave the label on the bottle a look, still hiding it from the other pair of eyes, and he was stunned to find all things mentioned by his boss in the description of the wine. The only remaining detail for Burns to get was the name.

“This blend can’t be anything else but a Cabernet Sauvignon. Palmaz vineyards, If I’m not mistaken.”

As if his performance wasn’t already impressive, there he goes, guessing the exact wine blend with perfect calculation and poise. Smithers spoke, low with affection: “You’re a wonder, sir”, showing him the bottle. Monty lit up in victory, a brief display of glee as he grabbed the flask before he composed himself. He cleared his throat, pouring a glass for his assistant.

Turns out even the most intimidated man could be a gentle one.

“There _are_ perks to being filthy rich, see?”

“I’ll say,” replied Waylon, never having thought it the other way around. He caught himself practically _fanning_ himself with his hand and mentally kicked himself. The temperature in the room was absurdly high, though; and they hadn’t even stoked a fire.

Burns pushed Waylon’s glass into his hand, their fingers brushing with the exchange, urging him to have a taste.

Eager to please and impress, Smithers rotated the glass in his hand, aware of the sharp, persistent pair of eyes on him. Soon, Monty huffed out an impatient sigh and scooted forward on the sofa, his hands closing around Smithers’, almost causing him to drop the glass. “You’re holding it all wrong. Here…” he muttered, correcting his employee’s hold on the glass with his own, soft and a little cold hands. They were so delicate and slender, so _fragile_ in contrast to Smithers’ larger ones. Waylon found great difficulty focusing on anything else.

Gently lifting the glass up to Waylon’s beet-red face, Burns said quietly; almost _purred_ : “Take a deep breath.”

Unable to do naught else, his employee acquiesced him, eyes fluttering as an intense aroma of raspberry hit his nostrils. He thought absentmindedly, with Monty’s gentle grip on his forearms, that if anyone came into the room and saw them right now, there would be little doubt what their relationship was to them. He wished this were the case for _him_ as well, that the lines weren’t so blurry. That if he claimed Monty’s lips with his own right now, there would be no questions asked afterward, no reprimands.

“You smell that?” implored the billionaire, bringing him back to the moment. How could Waylon have disappeared in the first place? “Mhm…” he managed, having melted already by the time his boss tipped the glass to his mouth. He tasted the sweet wine, relishing in how it coated his tongue and throat in a swirl of heat and tastes.

“Well?” prompted Monty, mere inches away from the other man now. Waylon let the liquor sit on his tongue for a second, wanting to get everything on his palate. He could taste the blue and black fruits, the unmistakable aftertaste of black tea. Perhaps it was the moment, or perhaps it was the wine by itself, but it was the most delicious thing Smithers had ever tried. The price probably helped. After all, the more expensive the wine was, the better, right? And the same went for age. Or at least it did for _Waylon_.

He turned his free hand to trap Burns’ narrower one in the cage of his own, noting the hitch in breath for both parties. “It’s exquisite,” he murmured.

Leaning into his assistant’s space with half-lidded, blown eyes - though Waylon couldn’t tell if it was the dim lighting of the room or _something_ _else_ -, Montgomery agreed: “Mm, quite. It’s _marvelous.”_

In all sincerity, Waylon no longer knew if they were still talking about the wine. It certainly didn’t _feel_ that way.

But just before he allowed himself to cave and finally give into a far too prolonged kiss, Smithers’ conscious caught up with him and told him that _this wouldn’t last;_ that no good would come from it. Waylon was Burns’ assistant and worker, nothing more. Introducing romance to their relationship could only end in catastrophe.

More remorseful than ever, he hastily rose from the couch, spouting the most bullshit line he’s ever said. “It’s late. We should go to sleep.”

Each word pained him more and more. Every step away he took from his boss was a step away from his happiness.

Confused and dare Waylon say _miffed?,_ Burns barked out a laugh. “But it’s only 10 pm! And it’s a _Saturday!”_

“Well, I’m tired. You can always stay up if you want to,” rushed Smithers, not having the stomach to to look back as he walked away from his boss and up the stairs to his bedroom. 

* * *

Getting ready for bed that night was everything but relaxing. By the time Waylon had dressed down to his slacks and shirt suit and gotten beneath the covers to sulk by his lonesome over risks he _didn’t_ take, his supervisor barged in, polishing off his glass of wine. Was that his first, second or _third?_ When he undid the knot on his robe and let it hang open, revealing only a pair of white briefs beneath miles and miles of pasty skin, Smithers made sure not to stare. Or at least, he _made an attempt_ not to stare. He swallowed the lump in his throat and called out: “Sir?”

Flatly, Burns replied: “I’m preparing for bed. Is that a problem?”

"Not at all.”

The billionaire rolled his eyes and laid down on the bed, facing away from his employee. Smithers gulped, wanting nothing but to reach out and wrap an arm around the other’s lithe frame, to whisper a trail of kisses down his neck and get him to turn around; but alas, you reap what you sow. So he simply faced the wall, mumbling a: “Goodnight” into the air but receiving no response.

* * *

What couldn’t have been twenty minutes later, Waylon shifted for the fifth time that night onto his back, and he heard his counterpart whisper into the night: “Can’t sleep either, huh?”

“Afraid not,” he sighed back, carefully adjusting onto his side so that he faced Montgomery. Almost immediately, the other mimicked the action, now face to face with him. Smithers’ heart made a flip in his chest.

“Smithers?” Montgomery asked, hushed. Equally hushed, Waylon replied: “Yes?”

“Why haven’t you brought up our kiss yet?”

Oh. _Oh!_ Well, now you’ve done it, Waylon.

Before he could answer, Burns went on: “Or better yet, why didn’t you kiss me _tonight?_ Have I lost my charm?”

Waylon almost jerked back, as though the words gave him a first-degree burn. Monty both looked and sounded uncertain, genuinely concerned over the possibility of his own query, and Waylon simply couldn’t have that. He brought a trembling hand up to touch the other’s face, marveling at how the man leaned into his touch, and he said: “I didn’t think you remembered yesterday. You were drunk. You _are_ drunk. I didn’t- I _don’t_ … want to take advantage of you.”

“I _was_ drunk, but clear-headed enough to know what I wanted. I’ve had one glass tonight, just the one. And I still want the same,” Monty clarified, one hand coming up to rest atop Smithers’ and guiding it to his jaw, tilting it slightly forward. They were dangerously close now, and Waylon’s breath was in his throat.

“Unless…” Burns paused, one meek, tantalizing breath away. “- you don’t want me?”

And that was the most ridiculous thing he had said all night, thought Waylon, as he whispered, not missing a beat: “I’m head over heels for you, sir.”

“Then prove it,” challenged Montgomery, that grin back, and Waylon was happy to see it again, but he wisely decided to wipe it off of him by leaning in and connecting their lips together.

And oh, why had Waylon tried to resist this? This dance of lips on lips, of tangling limbs and hums and sighs that was _so easy; decades_ of wanting on his side being charged into one moment that was more incredible than anything he ever could have and _had_ imagined. It was surreal.

But at the same time, Burns’ arms looping around his neck and slender fingers pushing into his hair felt pretty real to him. His lips tasted of sweet berries from the wine they both had and Smithers was _parched_.

The effect that only pecks and long kisses had on Montgomery - with the softest, smallest noises of approval pouring from his mouth and his hands curling into fists that tugged at his hair -, made Smithers curious as to what other reactions he could gather from him. So he let his tongue flick across the seam of Burns’ lips, asking for entrance, and the response was instantaneous; lips parted to let him in and the lithe, warm frame in his arms bucked forward into his.

Smithers’ tongue licked at the roof of the other’s mouth, across his teeth, and finally, _finally_ , it met Monty’s. A mewl reverberated in the older man’s throat. Hands pushed at Waylon’s, coaxing them beneath his robe of red silk.

“You can touch me,” whispered his supervisor between kisses, and Smithers felt his entire face heat up.

“Sir,..”

“None of that now, Waylon. Call me Monty.”

A violent shudder coursed down Smithers’ spine at the request and he allowed himself to slide his hands around Burns’ waist, his skin surprisingly smooth and _warm_ beneath the pads of his fingers. He traced each vertebrae with the whisper of blunt nails, up to his neck and back down to the waistband of his underwear; meant to soothe rather than arouse. Montgomery responded in favor; arching his back into his touch and taking his assistant’s lower lip between his teeth and gently pulling back, teasing him.

“Monty,” Waylon sighed, his heart light. Burns paused, then, the hands in his hair moving to a stop as he stared wide-eyed at him. “Again,” he asked, voice unsteady, a hint of moisture at the corners of his eyes. Smithers provided.

“Monty…”

“Again.”

Waylon cupped the billionaire’s face in his hands and caressed his cheek, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Monty,” he whispered against warm, flushed, skin. He pressed another kiss below his ear, echoed: “Monty”, lifted his hand up and brushed his lips against it, murmured his name one last time.

With darkened eyes and a quivering smile on his lips, his lover drew him in for a tight hug. Gratitude radiated off of him as he buried his face in the crook of Waylon’s neck. “I… Waylon, you should know that I-... I-...” but his voice wavered, not carrying, and Smithers hushed him, stroking his back in an attempt to comfort. Monty didn’t have to say it, he’d already made such an effort tonight, now he could rest. They both could.

Swallowing the lump in his throat, he soothed: “I know.”

“Always have.”

“Me too. God, me too, Monty,” he repeated, content with laying here with his love, their legs tangled together and their hearts beating as one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell what song/artist I was listening to when writing this chapter based on its title? lol. I'm honestly thrilled to present to you my complete, absolutely cursed work of Burnsmithers! This ship will forever haunt me. I truly hope you enjoyed this, my sincere thanks to all of you reading!

**Author's Note:**

> Welp; it seems that my crack ship has turned against me and forced me to write this four part fanfic about it. Woe is me! 
> 
> I doubt anyone will read this through and like it, but hey, if you do, why don't you let me know? It helps me out a lot and, more importantly, it helps me decide if I should write and post more! Thanks so much for reading!


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